|For My Wounds' Sake|
|Summary:||Very early in the morning after the battle, Cordelya tends to an injured Ser Ilgrave and unwittingly he gives her worrisome news.|
|Related Logs:||Ironborn Invasion|
|The Sick Tent — Stonebridge|
|A sick tent filled with the injured and dying from the battle for the Roost.|
|Early morning, January 15th, 289|
It's morning, and Markus Ilgrave is still alive. He'd expected as much, truth be told, as Senna had confirmed it for him several times, but his faith in her was somewhat rocked by the travel back to Stonebridge from the sight of Alderbrook, his serious chest wounds ensuring that anything but the smoothest travel was something of agony. He still lays upon a cot, the same he was dumped upon when the wounded arrived at Stonebridge, and he seems quite apt to remain that way, for now.
Cordelya slept a few hours, but only a few, tossing and turning in worry for her husband and the men he commands. When she got up nigh unto the middle of the night to hear that the wounded had been sent back here, she'd given up going back to bed and, instead, gone to help among the many beds, the wounded and the dying. It's hours later now and, while her maid is still lingering in the back of the room, keeping a drowsy eye on Cordelya, the lady has found herself at the side of one of her husband's men. If she could not be with her husband — who went forward instead of back — she could at least be near one who was so wounded and she had come to like in their few days together. She changed his bandages once in the night, though he might have been too drugged or drowsy to realize. Now, she's lightly dozing in the chair, waiting for him to awake for further treatments.
"… still alive," is the refrain Markus offers to no one, or perhaps the Seven or some other foreign God he's taken up with in the lands where he earned the stories he so claims in his possession. It's soft spoken, laced with pain and the sound of a dry throat. He doesn't even bother trying to sit up, remembering well how much that hurt previously, his eyes fluttering open slowly.
Cordelya is very lightly sleeping, only having even shut her eyes because she was so very exhausted from lacking rest the night before. Corrie jerks into sitting a bit straighter, eyes turning sharp to the man below her care. Worry furrows her brow. "Aye, aye… Ser Ilgrave, still very much alive and going to stay that way." She murmurs reassuringly in his direction. Tenderly, one of her small, long hands reaches out to brush her palm against the back of his forehead, then his cheek, then the upper part of his chest, just ensuring that no fever has begun — the first indication of a possible festering. "Do you wish water? Wine?"
He's warm, but no signs yet that should worry. Markus' eyes find Cordelya as she hovers over him, though they take a moment or two longer to focus on the woman and recognize just whom it is that looms over him. "Corrie?" he offers, though even in his state he manages to utter the familiar name quietly, for the sake of any ears about to be offended. And then, he answers, "Wine."
Cordelya doesn't seem to care about other ears. She's at the man's side in full view of everyone else in the sick tent, is she not? Though she has cared for others over the early morning hours, this was the bed at which she chose to sit and keep vigil, much like she did for Gedeon. She nods gently. "Some water first. Then wine. I also have milk of the poppy, if the pain is too much, but I think you are strong enough to handle it." She disappears out of his field of vision for a few moments, returning with a tin cup of water and the skin of wine. "Here… all this first. Can you manage?" She offers it to his hand.
"Can't quite sit up," Markus admits, when she comes back with the tin cup, though he does raise up his head and holds up a hand to try and take the cup. "Move too much, and I think my insides will start to spill through the stitches," he warns, with a weak attempt at humor.
Cordelya kneels there, instead, shifting one of her hands beneath his head to help him tilt it up without using those so delciate, and no doubt so injured, abdomenal muscles. "I've got you, Markus. Just sip. It'll all go down eventually." She helps him get all the water down, that more vital for his body than the wine is, but then she's gently shifting the skin so he can sip from it as well. "And no, Senna is very good with stitching… they will not spill out as long as you are gentle. Still… resting is good. Your body needs it as much as your mind."
As exposed as his abdomen is, she can see that Markus is not exactly unfamiliar with wounds that require stitching, or leave behind wide scars. His is a life lived dangerously, so it would seem, and it's only the Warrior's grace that has seen him through to this cot. He sips quick at first, but coughs on the water and slows as she instructs, his dry lips eager for the refreshment.
The woman takes her time, supporting his head as much as he needs, though it brings her in quite close confines to him. She is only doing the job of a healer, after all! Corrie guides him through water and then through some wine, though not so much as the water that he took, before she gently pulls the skin away and sets it to the side for later. "There. That… that is plenty. I shall have them bring some food around as well, if you think you might handle it?"
If he might appreciate, or even take notice, of how close she is to him, it would be in far better circumstances than this. Markus is just grateful for the assistance, and tells her as much as he settles his head back onto a thin pillow. "Don't think… I'm much for eating just yet," he says, turning his head to the side to get another look at the woman. "But thank you."
Cordelya nods gently, slipping her thin, long frame back up to the chair which she occupied before he stirred. "If you feel up for it, I can change your bandages now, or we can wait a touch longer and let you get your senses about you." She smiles a bit more gently to him as he thanks her, fingertips reaching forward to carefully guide some of his unruly, dark hair out of his eyes and off his forehead. "No thanks is needed. I am glad I might assist in caring for one of my husband's men. You… you were most pleasant company the other eve. I would be saddened to lose the chance at more stories." She teases him lightly.
He swallows, his throat still a bit thick, and he tries not to let himself move at all when he chuckles. Markus fails, and winces a bit for the failed effort. "Knew it was about the stories," he accuses her, before he asks, "How is your lord husband? I saw him knocked from his horse, and he took at least one blow in combat with Orkwood." He coughs a bit, and adds, "Must be far better than I, though, if you're here."
Cordelya flashes him a slightly wider smile as he comments about the stories. "Aye… well, not just the stories, but that is a big part of it, dear Ser. I would not take near the interest in you if you did not bring honied words from distant lands. You told so few… I cannot let you die until I have emptied every story from those lips of yours." The words are clearly meant to make him smile, mostly jesting. But then he goes on to ask after her husband and all her smile falls away. An icy stillness overcomes her body, a slowness of breath. "…I… do not know." She confesses quietly. "…He did not ride with the injured. He… went forward, I was told. I… was unawares he took a wound." Though now she looks half sick with the worry.
"Senna was tending him," Markus informs his patron's lady, forgoing a repost to her humored comment, favoring seriousness instead. "He still stood at the end of the battle, from what I saw. Once the reavers started to retreat, I turned my horse back for the line, and I think I just missed a blow that would've been the end of me." His brow knits as he says, "If no one has said much, it's because it must not be bad, Corrie. Your folk don't strike me as the sort that would hide that from you."
Cordelya considers those words, though her brows are still knit in a deep furrow. She wants to believe them, she does. Surely they would tell her if the worst had happened? "…Aye, Ser Ilgrave. I… I do hope you are right. Still, I…" She looks back over the wounded in their bed, the milling care takers, the quiet chaos of a sick room after a war. "…I… need must find news of my husband. Do forgive me. I will return soon to change those bandages but… I… I must know." She insists, shakily, half sick with worry. She stands, giving him one last look, but then is quickly moving off to go find some more healthy men. Someone to tell her something.
"I'm not going anywhere," Markus says, lamely, raising a hand to wave her off whens he looks back his way. True to his word, he'll not be going anywhere for a while yet.